


Salamanders and Solemn Vows

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1778, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Valley Forge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: Hamilton may have had one too many at Von Steuben’s latest get together. Thankfully Laurens is there to help him through the worst of it.Some sweet Lams at Valley Forge





	Salamanders and Solemn Vows

**Author's Note:**

> Implied character death at the very end

Loud snores filled the dark quarters when Hamilton slowly peeled his eyes open. He squeezed them shut again against the dull pounding in his head, and he had to swallow twice before he could produce any saliva in his dry mouth. The sour taste of half-digested beef and alcohol lingered on his tongue.

His memory felt patched and blurry. He vaguely recalled a dimly lit parlor and the din of unintelligible chatter and laughter. Von Steuben’s party, he remembered. The Prussian’s way to poke fun at their miserable lack of supplies, now that Greene had taken over as quartermaster and a light appeared at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Torn breeches were the price of admission; Hamilton had met the demand easily, picking the thread out of his most oft mended pair.

The roar of approving hollers when a match produced flames atop the strong spirits, he remembered more clearly. “It’s called a Salamander,” one of Von Steuben’s aides had explained in his ear, voice raised to be heard over the noise of the room. How many had he tossed down last night? 

His mind felt too fuzzy to think properly. He rolled over, intent on curling up and going back to sleep, only to find his course blocked by another body. Laurens, he recognized distantly. The abruptly aborted motion had set his stomach churning. Saliva, so hard to produce only moments ago, suddenly flooded his mouth. He shot up and kicked his feet over the side of the camp bed, stumbling instinctively around the trunks and other beds crammed into the small room towards the chamber pot shoved in the opposite corner.

Nothing came up, even though the stench emanating from pot worsened his nausea. The rapid movement and dry heaves only served to turn the dull pounding in his temples to a more intense throbbing. He moaned softly as he rubbed his palm over his forehead and tried to take a steadying breath.

A hand landed on his shoulder blade, and he startled badly. Whipping his head around, he could just make out Laurens in the darkness. He’d been so caught up in his misery, he hadn’t heard him approach. “You’re all right,” John whispered.

“I thought I was going to be sick,” he rasped, waving his hand at the chamber pot in an attempt at explanation, not awake or sober enough to realize John likely couldn’t see the gesture in the dark.

“I doubt you have anything left in your stomach.”

His face went hot with embarrassment as he understood this wasn’t the first time John had comforted him through his nausea tonight. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

John’s hand soothed down his back. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t remember much of the party. How badly did I embarrass myself?”

Laurens breathed out an amused little chuckle. “You actually seemed fine all night. It wasn’t until we left that I realized how bad off you were. You stumbled in a mud puddle on the way back to headquarters, and when you were down on all fours you started getting sick.”

He groaned. “Did anyone else see me?”

“Just me,” John assured him. “Everyone else was still at the party, or already back at headquarters. I helped you back here when you were done and put you straight to bed.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You’re too good to me, Jack.”

“You’d do the same for me,” Laurens replied, shrugging off the gratitude. “You need help getting back to bed?”

He nearly refused, but when he tried to push himself up under his own power, his head spun dangerously. “Mm, please,” he requested, reaching out to steady himself on John’s shoulder. John’s arm wrapped around his back securely as he lead him back to the camp bed in the corner.

As he collapsed on the half-stuffed, threadbare mattress, he heard Laurens cross the room. Water tinkled softly into one of the pewter cups they kept near the wash basin. Laurens maneuvered easily back to the cot, sat beside him, and urged him to sit up. “Come on, Ham. You need to drink. You’ll feel better.”

He pushed himself up on his left forearm with a low moan and reached out with his right to take the cup. The water did help a little, washing the foul taste from his mouth and stilling his belly somewhat. “Thank you,” he whispered again.

“Shh,” Laurens hushed him. One of John’s cool hands soothed over Hamilton’s forehead, paused for a moment, then combed his hair back from his face. “Go back to sleep.”

He obediently curled back up on the mattress, already fast asleep by the time Laurens returned.

**

The morning gun sounding reveille woke him next. His headache felt much worse in the hazy light of dawn. He pushed his face fully into his pillow to try to block out the light.

“Up, my boys,” Harrison called, his booming voice accompanied by the rustling of papers as he began handing out assignments for the day. “That includes you, Ham.”

“We’re sure he’s still breathing, right?” he heard Tilghman ask with clear amusement.

He groaned into his pillow to prove he remained among the living. Tilghman laughed. How could he be so cheerful so early in the morning? Especially after last night?

“Go easy on the lad, Harrison,” Meade urged in his distinctive Virginia drawl. “We’re all a bit slow moving this morning.”

“And whose fault is that?” Harrison retorted.

“Hammy?” John’s voice was softer and closer. A hand landed on his back again, rubbing gently over his shoulder blades and down his spine. “Are you all right?”

“Mm,” he hummed, shifting so he could peel an eye open and shoot Laurens a weak half smile. “I think I’ll survive.”

Laurens pressed the back of his hand to Hamilton’s forehead again. Hamilton frowned lightly, and reassured him, “I’m fine, Jack.”

“I know,” Laurens agreed, though his smile looked strained as he rose from the bed.  

Harrison heartlessly yanked on Hamilton’s blanket as he strolled passed the cot. “Up, Ham.”

He reluctantly sat up, and he waited a moment for his vision to right itself before he placed his feet on the floor. A towering stack of papers slapped onto the mattress beside him. He squinted at the writing on the top of the page, his head swimming as he tried to make out the words.

“I’m never drinking again,” he muttered as he pressed a hand to his pounding head.

Tilghman and Meade both snickered.

Harrison gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder, but remained firm. “Learn life lessons on your own time, my boy. We’ve work to do.”

He bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that he hadn’t had his ‘own time’ for nearly two years now. Instead, he pasted on a smile and assured Harrison, “I’m fine, really. I can work.”

“Here, Hammy, fresh clothes,” Laurens said softly. Giving up the attempt to read the documents beside him, he glanced over and saw John had pulled a clean shirt, breeches, and stockings from his trunk for him.

He gave John a grateful look and started to pull off the muddy, torn clothes he’d slept in.

“I’ll save you something hot at the table, Ham,” Tilghman promised, halfway out the door with his own stack of papers tucked under his arm. Meade and Harrison both followed him out.

He’d do almost anything for a cup of hot coffee, but he knew he’d be lucky even to find weak tea. It would have to do, he supposed. The thought of anything more solid turned his stomach. He glanced over at Laurens, who had collapsed back on his forearms on the bed, already fully dressed with his own work neatly piled beside him.

“Aren’t you going down to breakfast?”

“I’ll wait for you,” Laurens shrugged.

"All right." Hamilton smiled a little as he tugged his shirt over his head, the white linen hiding his face and overtaking his vision. He could feel John's eyes on him as he changed, and he wished he felt well enough to properly enjoy the sensation. 

**

Hamilton slumped a little further over the document he was copying and allowed his eyes to close for a just a moment. Two long oak tables had been pushed together to create one large working space for Washington’s aides, and the heaping stacks of papers that laid upon them awaiting attention obscured Hamilton’s view of the entryway. The parlor was unusually quiet for late afternoon, with Tilghman, Meade, and Harrison all off attending to other duties. Laurens had just disappeared to an unknown destination as well. Hamilton relished the brief snatch of quiet.

He felt a good deal better than this morning, but a dull headache and a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach lingered stubbornly. He still hadn’t managed anything more than tea, which was so weak it was basically just hot water. Given the amount of teasing he’d endured all day, he knew he looked about as good as he felt.

“There you are. I almost couldn’t see you behind all those papers.” John’s voice startled him into a more upright posture, and his eyes flew open to see him peering over the towering stacks with a bowl of steaming stew in hand. “I brought up some food for you. You need to put something in your stomach.”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. Laurens chuckled fondly and set the hot stew beside Hamilton, patting his shoulder companionably as he resumed his own seat. Sighing, Hamilton stirred the watery broth a few times, raised the spoon to his lips, and blew gently to cool the stew before swallowing it down. He paused for a moment to ensure it settled with no ill effect, then repeated the motion.

The bowl was half empty when his stomach started to protest. He pushed the food away and sat back, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. Shouldn’t he be feeling better by now?

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Laurens suggested. “The fresh air will do you good.”

Hamilton frowned at the towering stacks before them.

Seeming to intuit his thoughts, Laurens added, “All this will wait.”

He smiled at John. “All right. A walk sounds nice.”   

They both pushed back from the table and set off through the back door, shoulders bumping as they wandered down the muddy path away from camp. The sun had already sunk low in the sky, but enough daylight remained to see their surroundings. Grass had finally replaced the heaps of snow that had buried them for months, and the remaining trees, too skinny to have bothered cutting down during the harsh winter, had started to bud. Hamilton’s head felt clearer in the cool spring air.

“I feel like a fool,” Hamilton confessed as they walked. “I can’t believe I allowed myself to become so inebriated.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” John consoled.

He laughed softly. John could be too forgiving of his follies sometimes. “Whose if not mine?”

“You didn’t drink that much, Ham,” John said, his eyes trained on the path before them.

“Clearly I did,” he argued, his voice still light.

“No, you didn’t,” John repeated, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “I was with you all night. You’re just…you’re still so thin, Hammy.”

He looked down at himself, noting, not for the first time, how loosely his uniform still fit. That he remained underweight was hardly his fault. He’d lost too much weight during his near-fatal fever just a few months ago, and provisions were so scarce in camp that he had no hope of reaching full strength again.

He glanced at John and noticed how tense his expression had grown. “I’m all right, now. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I always worry about you,” John retorted. “You were so sick, Ham. I read the letters you sent to Washington. I hated that you were so sick, and I couldn’t be there to help you. I was so scared that you weren’t going to come back.”

Hamilton hesitated, not sure how best to give comfort. Honestly, he’d thought he was going to die, too. The fever had overwhelmed him, burning through him so intensely he’d felt like he was being cooked from the inside. Violent, unbearable pain had throbbed in all his joints, and his limbs had felt numb and tingly. He’d have sworn on his life that his mother was in the room with him during the worst of it. Though he’d never told anyone, as he’d sunk deeper into the fever and away from the pain, the knowledge that he was dying had been something of a relief. If only John had been there with him, he might have died content. 

“I’m all right now,” he settled on repeating. He tried to catch John’s eye, but he was still looking down at the path, so he let his gaze drift out to the horizon. The sky had turned a brilliant pink as the sun sank lower. The scraggly trees were shadowed, their still nearly bare branches reaching up like black fingers, starkly contrasting with the bright color beyond.

Into the comfortable quiet, he added, “I didn’t realize you were still so upset about me getting sick.” Although, giving it a moment’s thought, it shouldn’t have surprised him. John had been so tender and caring when he finally made his way to camp. Even though he’d been deemed healthy by the doctors, John had insisted he take it easy for a few days, and drafted their fellow aides to help shoulder the burden so Hamilton could rest a little longer.

John had sat by his side for days, reading aloud and inventing ridiculous stories. The sound of his voice in the quiet quarters, the back of their hands pressed together, remained one of his most treasured memories. 

John raised a shoulder slightly. “Of course I am. I lo—I mean, I really care about you.”

A smile blossomed across Hamilton’s face at the unspoken word. John had never said the word aloud, but he could sense it in every interaction. Leaving things unspoken had never been his talent. “I love you, too, Jack.”

John paused on the path suddenly, finally meeting his eye, and demanded, “You can’t leave me. Not like that. Not without saying goodbye. Promise me.”

He vowed softly, with no hesitation, “I promise.”

John’s arms snaked around him and tugged him close. He wrapped his arms around John in return, resting his chin on John’s broad shoulder. The embrace was warm and firm, a peaceful oasis in the horror of war. Hamilton grabbed a fistful of John’s worn uniform jacket as he squeezed him closer, trying to commit the feeling of John’s warm weight in his arms to memory.

**

_Not until years later, alone in his office with a crumpled paper, damp eyes, and a broken heart, does he realize he never demanded John vow the same to him._

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first Lams fic. As much as I adore Laurens, he really breaks my heart, which makes him tough to write. I hope I caught the something of the sweet spirit of their relationship. Since this is my first time diving into their relationship, I'd very much welcome any feedback! 
> 
> This fic is based on two posts I read on revolutionary-pirate and ciceroprofacto’s tumblr blogs. Apparently, in March 1778 Hamilton had a bad hangover after a wild party at Von Steuben’s that involved drinking flaming Salamanders and wearing torn breeches. Read the post [here](https://aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com/post/167192731888/col-hamilton-is-so-hurried-that-he-has-not-yet). This was about two months after he returned to camp after his near deadly fever in the winter of 1777. The scene in the morning with the aides was based on James McHenry’s poem A Morning Scene in a Hut [here](http://revolutionary-pirate.tumblr.com/post/160294059775/a-morning-scene-in-a-hut-by-james-mchenry-now).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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